


I Will Follow You

by emansil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bill and Fleur's wedding, Clueless Draco, Dancing Luna, Horcrux Hunt, Luna dancing Draco, M/M, ball's scratching Ron, confused Ron, tap dancing Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emansil/pseuds/emansil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Draco was bored. Horribly, mind- numbing and soul-shattering bored. Being in hiding wasn’t all that much fun, until he stumbled across a copy of The Wizard’s Guide to Astral Projection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Follow You

 

Terrified to breathe, Draco stood still and silent. Just on the other side of his Disillusionment Charm were three Death eaters, including Scabior, with his uncanny ability to catch a scent as easily as Greyback. Thus far the old werewolf had not been sent after him. Draco suspected he was being toyed with, as a cat played with a mouse.

“What’s that?” Scabior said just a few feet from where Draco had crawled, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Draco was not surprised his scent carried through his charm. The constant running and hiding with Snape over the past weeks had allowed little time for bathing. 

“I do believe that’s our boy,” Rabastan was his cousin on his mother’s side by marriage only, thank Merlin. Draco was sickened by the brown and rotten teeth. “What do you bet; he’s hiding under a Disillusionment Charm?”

“I think it’s time we broke through it. I’m tired of chasing after him,” the third one said. Draco did not recognise him. There had been so many that had come after him and Snape. Death Eaters and others that swore allegiance to the Dark Lord; some didn’t yet carry the Mark but they were willing to do whatever they could to please him. Capturing Draco had been at the top of that list. Some were so new Draco did not even know them. 

“The Dark Lord is losing patience with us also,” Rabastan again.

Draco was as good as caught. The days and weeks of running and hiding were at an end. Snape was already gone. The Dark Lord had become suspicious of Snape’s continued absences and lack of any real information. Draco was now on his own. His gratitude to his former Head of House for protecting him as long as he had was boundless.

Whenever he’d questioned Snape on why he’d done it, why he’d cast the killing curse at the one man who trusted him explicitly? Snape had only ever responded, “It was necessary,” or “I made a promise.”

“Are you referring to the Unbreakable Vow, you made with my mother?” Draco had pushed for verification.

Snape had only ever said, “That too.”

 

*** 

 

Now it was all over. Draco would be returned to the Dark Lord. The terror of what punishment might be meted out was much greater than any punishment might actually be. 

Even so, Draco doubted his fate with the Wizengamot would have been any easier. He had stood on the top of that tower. Draco had let the Death Eaters into the Castle; Draco had been intending to cast that final curse. But he’d been too afraid. Never in all his seventeen years had he felt more of a disappointment to his family, especially his father. 

Snape had kept him safe and protected as long as he could, but now he was gone. Draco was truly on his own; tired, hungry, scared and angry. The anger was directed at himself for his failure, his father for putting them in that position and at Dumbledore for seeing straight into Draco’s heart. The heart that he’d spent so many years trying to hide from them all. 

Draco reached into his pocket. Why, he didn’t know, but something told him to. As he did, he pricked his finger on something. Fuck! That hurt. He pulled his hand out of his pocket. If he’d not had to immediately start sucking on the blood that the prick had drawn, he’d have laughed out loud. In his hand was a bloody Potter Stinks badge from fourth year. Even now, Merlin knew how many miles away, the bloody Gryffindor; Harry Potter was still causing him pain.

With no warning Draco found himself tumbling through space. Over and over his body went tits over arse and then reversed to arse over tits. It was a Port key. The Bloody Potter Stinks badge was a Port key.

 

*** 

 

He landed arse first just on the outskirts of a small forested area. He could hear a stream running nearby. He stood and brushed himself off as well as he could, removing leaves and twigs and not a small amount of loose dirt from his robes. Wand in his trembling hand, he began to explore the area. The water in the stream was clear, clean and delicious, but so cold it burned his hands and teeth. The few handfuls he’d splashed on his face were both painful and invigorating. 

The deepening of the shadows around him reminded him that night was falling and he needed to find a place to bed down. He’d not gone far, when he saw it. Just on the other side of a small hill, a hundred yards or so past where he first landed, a small stone croft, rather more of a shepherds’ cottage. As he drew closer, he began to realise even by shepherd’s standards, this was a hovel. One storey only and less than eight by twelve feet. If the chimney which took up more than half the roof line was any indication, most of the small interior space would be taken up by a large fireplace. 

The cottage was magical, but not in terms of its size. The moment he stepped through the door, the fire lit, but went out when he stepped back outside. A small larder provided plenty of food, even if not the most exciting. Everything he ate, drank or used was replaced immediately. The cottage was well lit as well. This frightened him, afraid it might stand out, like Hogwarts at night, with all of the brilliance of the light inside, shining out onto the world. Anyone could find him here. He tried to turn them down, but with each spell they came back brighter than ever. Then as he passed by the one window he almost fainted with surprise and shock. The land around the hovel was pitch black, not a single shard of light shone through the window. The light was only visible on the inside.

His sense of security grew. The cottage housed a small bed, barely large enough for one. A table with exactly one chair was the only other furniture. A single shelf packed full of books ran along two of the walls. A few spell books, but mostly nineteenth century Muggle Literature. Although not his favourite, at least he wouldn’t go mental with boredom.

One last check outside to verify he’d not imagined the darkness. He hadn’t. He grabbed another hunk of bread, crusty on the outside, warm, soft and fragrant on the inside and a wedge of Sharp English cheddar, and a couple of Lady Apples he found in a basket on the table. He cast a Scourgify on himself; he’d take a real bath in the stream in the morning. No matter how cold it might be.

Draco climbed onto the bed after he’d finished eating. He began to read The Tale of Two Cities. . His eyes grew heavy and he found himself sinking lower and lower. The moment he became perpendicular, every light in the cottage went dark. Only the fire which burned in the fireplace provided any light. Startled, he sat back up. The cottage once again filled with light. Testing his theory, he sank back down to where he once again lay flat. Again the cottage went dark. 

He couldn’t really argue with the cottage’s logic. If you’re tired enough to lie down, you’re tired enough to sleep. He stripped down to his pants and crawled under the bedding that lay across the bed. For the first time in days, weeks, months even, he felt safe. He fell asleep and there were no dreams. 

 

*** 

 

Draco was bored. Horribly, mind- numbingly and soul-shatteringly bored. The cottage provided him with his every need, but that was the problem, wasn’t it?

There was always plenty of food, just the same food over and over. The magic in the cottage operated on the belief that if he ate cheddar cheese, he must really like cheddar cheese, so it replaced it with the same. Never Gouda, or Havarti, or Roquefort, or even a mild Cheddar, no, it was always the Sharp English Cheddar. The cottage followed this pattern with any food item he might eat. Variety was not in the cottage’s vocabulary.

It was the same with the reading material. For every Dickens he read, there appeared another. The man was verbose; Draco had to give him that. Trollope was another that appeared to have an endless fascination with his own words. Book after book, after book by Anthony Trollope would appear on the shelf the moment Draco closed the cover on the one he’d just read. The ones by P.G.Wodehouse were his favourites. Witty and a pleasure to read, he fancied himself a cross between both Jeeves and Wooster. Young, dapper and rich just like Bertram, but bright, intelligent and capable in the same way as Jeeves. Clearly Jeeves was a wizard of extraordinary talents. But even their escapades were wearing thin. 

He took up running, to kill time, and to stay somewhat healthy. The cottage and the surrounding countryside allowed him some space. The first time he had run into the protective wards that surrounded the cottage and the surrounding area, he’d been trying to escape. Walking away, Apparating, attempts to reverse the direction of the Portkey. They had all failed. The result was a headache that lasted for two days. If any potions had been left behind, Draco had not found them. Luckily, the scrapings of bark from a willow tree behind the cottage, boiled in water, served as an acceptable remedy. 

On the day he found himself tap-dancing around the cottage from the memories of an old Fred Astaire movie he’d watched before the Yule Ball, was the day he knew he had to find something to occupy his mind. Else he’d go stark raving mental. 

A cookery book, Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Cookery and Household Management provided some degree of interest. He could learn to cook. Then he wondered how he’d convince the cottage to give him the ingredients he’d need. It hadn’t been exceptionally helpful with potions ingredients he’d requested. The amount of cooperation the cottage gave his spells and charms were on par with the cooperation the Weasel’s broken wand had given him in third year.

Briefly, Draco wondered what was happening in the outside world. Were Weasley and Potter still best mates? Don’t be ridiculous, of course they would be. Was Granger, the Mudblood, still with them? Where else would she be? Were they and the others getting ready to return to Hogwarts? If not for the calendar that flipped to the new day every morning, Draco would have lost track of time. The calendar now showed the date as July eighteenth. If he’d been at home, he and his mother would have already started discussing his school robes, and his father would have spent many an evening telling him the classes he should take for the best advantage. Draco wondered who would be appointed the new Head Master. 

Hogwarts and its students, even his enemies, were all he allowed himself to think of. Thoughts of his family and what they might be going through was intolerable, as he could do nothing to help them. He assumed that at some point in time Snape would come to retrieve him or failing that eventually the magic would fail. Surely he would not be stuck here, in this cottage, for the rest of his days.

Wait? What’s this? As he’d pulled the Beeton’s book out, along with it had fallen a small pamphlet: The Wizard’s Guide to Astral Projection. 

His heart beat faster than it had since he’d first port-keyed into the area over the possibility of learning something new. His ability to learn this he never doubted. He could travel, check on his family, visit his friends in Slytherin; watch the disaster that would be the Quidditch matches without him as Seeker. Maybe he’d even be able to find out how to get truly out of these environs. If he still failed at finding a way to remove his body, he’d maybe still be able to “travel” to all the places, he’d never been allowed. Muggle museums, galleries, he might even find a way to go to Muggle Cinema; maybe watch Fred Astaire dance on the large screen. The possibilities were endless.

He grabbed the pamphlet, the one chair and a glass of pumpkin juice, of which there was an endless supply. He thought he might get hungry, so he grabbed an apple from the basket, staring at it in disgust. Once more, this time, really meaning it, he pointed his wand at the fruit. A beautiful peach, ripe and flesh coloured appeared in his hand. He didn’t hold out much hope though. It was the taste that confirmed true transformation. He took a large bite; waiting for sweet juicy nectar to flood his mouth and linger on his taste buds. The juice would then run down his chin and on his hand, making them sticky with the sweetness. So real was this vision he could taste it, smell it, and feel it. But no. It was as always, another freaking apple. If not for his discovery of the pamphlet, Draco suspected he would have screamed or cried with frustration. 

It wasn’t quite as easy as he’d imagined. The anti-Apparition wards on the property stopped him every time. At each attempt; his magic took the Apparition spell to its forgone, but in this case unwanted conclusion. Lucius and Snape had both been persistent in their training. He’d just have to retrain himself. 

He practiced all through the day and afternoon. Calming the mind, to allow the tendrils of magic to flow through him was the first requirement. Years of Occlumency training had well prepared him for excellence in that. “One must always keep control of one’s thoughts and memories, ” his father’s voice sounding in his ear. Next was learning how to reach deep inside to find your center, where the happiest of your memories was stored. Admittedly, this was a bit harder. Draco had never excelled at the Patronus charm. His father’s son, Draco always wanted to be the best at everything. 

Well, it was time to learn, and that he had plenty of. The thought of what would happen to him, if or when the Dark Lord found him served as the fear to bring the Patronus forth. He found that worked just fine. 

When his Patronus first appeared, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was so bloody typical. Could his Patronus be a snow leopard, possibly an Albino Siberian Tiger, a terrifying polar bear from the Arctic north? Of course the answer to all of these was a no. He’d even have been content with a white swan. They could be deadly and beautiful. Instead what he got was a ferret. 

Then he saw it in action. He conjured up some schools of rampaging snakes, Hippogriffs with hysteria, and Gryffindors and their annoying heroics. Each and every time, his little ferret Patronus kicked arse. By teatime he was beginning to find acceptance, by suppertime he was a bit in love with his Patronus.

After several attempts to read the same page resulted in failure each time, he gave up and went to bed. The excitement of what he’d accomplished kept him awake though. 

He sat up, the cottage filling with light once more. He stilled his mind, all extraneous thoughts and feelings blocked. He opened it up to the memory he’d chosen. The first time his father had told him he was proud of him, and Draco had fully believed it. His Patronus was there hovering in the background, waiting to come forth if needed. Draco sat on the edge of the bed, wand in hand. Slowly he stood and repeated two of the tenants of apparition, “Determination and deliberation.” Destination he left off, there was no destination. He circled the wand above his head the magic flowing over, around and through him. 

He knew without looking that it had worked. Yet, still, he was afraid to look. Taking a deep and steadying breath he opened his eyes. Holy Circe’s tit, it had worked!

Draco found himself, his astral self, hovering along the ceiling. Below him, still standing with the wand in his hand; his arm raised, was his body. He could see it; watch its chest rise and fall with each breath. See his eyes blink open and closed. Feel the rumbling of his stomach as his late dinner continued digesting.

Hardly able to restrain his excitement, he could not wait. He wanted to try something. It was difficult but he did manage to touch his astral nose with his astral hand. The Draco he was seeing below him did so as well. What astral him did, physical Draco did. Remarkable, but he needed to take it one step further. He had to separate the two. Physical Draco needed to stay quiet and still, resting even, while he went traveling.

Hours later, and after many unplanned returns to his physical body, Draco finally managed to make his astral self fold his elbows in front of his chest; while his physical body remained still. His practice quickened the process. A slight twist of the wrist while repeating the words of “determination and deliberation,” was now sufficient. Flushed with happiness, Draco returned to his body. 

His excitement over his success caused him to practice daily. Only eating and sleeping, and not much of either kept him from it. It wasn’t easy, his success rate less than he’d hoped, at the beginning. The day he’d managed to project his etheric body at each attempt was the day he knew he’d finally triumphed. 

Now, the question was where to go; where should he travel? He refused to use the word, “if”, even in his mind. There was not “if”, only “when” and “where.”

Time passed and he’d observed himself from every nook and cranny of the small cottage. Across the low beamed ceiling, along the walls; including standing directly in front of the roaring fire. The experience was most unusual; to be right in the flames, watch them burn hot less than inch from his face and not feel a thing. As exciting as this was, disappointment still plagued him. He’d not yet left the cottage. 

The next morning dawned crisp and bright, with just enough of a breeze to keep it from being stifling. Focused, his mind at peace, Draco visualized the hedgerow that grew a few feet from the back of the cottage. Saw the small berries that were just coming into being. Stilled his mind and looked down on it as if from above, envisioned the deep green of the leaves and dark brown of the stems and branches.

He opened his eyes and almost whooped out loud. Astrally speaking that is. He’d not yet learned the secret of how to bring his voice with him, a lesson for another time. He’d done it, the hedgerow lay below him. Every detail so clear, he could have counted the berries, if he’d so desired. 

Once there, he tried to decide his next move. The large forested area was about a hundred yards from the cottage. The wards had kept him from successfully going too far into it or Apparating out. Would the wards block this form of travel? First he needed to regather his strength again. Keeping the two aspects of a person separate for long periods of time was hard, especially over distances. 

A need not easy to resolve, he discovered. Since he could not see his body, there was no physical frame of reference. He couldn’t remember what position he was in, how his legs were arranged. Were his arms folded across his chest, or were they hanging by his side? His head, was it facing forward, or tilted to the side? He didn’t know. It took several tries and there were some moments of true panic. If he wasn’t there to guide and control his body, it could not eat or take in liquids. He supposed it still breathed, but even that was unclear. The bottom line was without food or water; he’d eventually die, wouldn’t he? Then his Astral self would have no body to return to.

Complete terror took over, but only briefly. He’d not endured seventeen years with his father, not survived sixth year and all its stresses, or withstood the running and hiding with Snape, for nothing. He calmed his panic and again focusing his mind and his memories of his physical body, until finally he managed to return to it without harm. 

After that, he always made sure he had clear in his mind the position and layout of every inch of his body, from how his hair was lying, to whether his toes were pointed or flexed. The ramifications of Splinching himself in this situation were terrifying beyond words. 

Draco practiced daily, improving as he did. Each day he traveled a bit further. The wards did not seem to stop him. He could only guess as to why, but didn’t spend a lot of time thinking on it. 

Draco enjoyed the traveling; it gave focus to his days. He still longed for human companionship. Even just the chance to see another human would have been sufficient. It was time to push the boundaries of his newly learned skill. He still had no idea where that was; assumed it was still Great Britain. The trees and shrubs and wild flowers that grew around the cottage were ones he was familiar with. His mother had shared her love and knowledge of growing things with him. An unbearable pang of homesickness clutched at him. When he’d been younger and was sick or lonely or just felt the weight of the world on him, doing its best to keep him down, on these occasions she was his mum, not his mother. He missed his mum 

He knew he should return home, check on his parents. Were they still alive? Had Voldemort murdered them, when Draco failed to return home? Worse was he torturing them, because Draco was not there to take the punishment? He knew that was where he should go. After the devastating breakdown he’d just suffered thinking about his mother, he could not bear the possibility of her not being there. He had faith one day he would be released from the magic of the cottage, but without his mother to return to…. He’d rather not know and still believe, than know and despair.

 

*** 

 

Draco opened his eyes, and gasped. Fear moved in, quick as lightening.

He had no idea where he was. Assuredly, it was no place he’d ever been before, and he hoped, to Merlin, he’d never visit in the future. Once he remembered, he wasn’t really here in this strange place, his heart stopped beating against his chest. He took some time to look around. 

The room was midsize, but due to the amount of furniture and other paraphernalia it housed, whoever lived there thought it much bigger than it was. Two single sized beds, one currently occupied, he noticed, were placed along one wall, night stands on the side of each. A large dresser and bureau and two separate wardrobes filled the remaining space. The walls were sort of a rough wood paneling; not the ebony of his own, or the formal cherry paneling of Blaise’s, or even the aged oak of Goyle’s. 

“Ronald Weasley,” a female voice called from outside the closed door. 

Ronald Weasley? What? 

“Mmrphf,” the lump in the bed grumbled, then snuffled a bit before it rolled over and swung out an arm, returning to sleep.

“Merciful Merlin. What am I doing in Ron Weasley’s bedroom?” He must have spoken out loud as Weasley’s eyes flew open and he sat up, quickly. Maybe too quickly as he grabbed his head and swayed as if dizzy. Weasley collapsed back on the bed and soon began snoring again.

“Ronald Bilious Weasley,” the screeching female was back. 

Great Circe’s tits; who was that? Draco cringed. 

“I can hear you snoring in there. We’ve Bill’s wedding to prepare for. Hermione is due any moment, the garden needs degnoming, and I can’t even think what else.” The door opened and a matronly looking woman with bright ginger hair entered. 

Oh yeah, he should have known, the Weasley matriarch . 

She lowered her voice, adding a note of affection. “Come on dear. It’s time to get up. Hermione will be arriving soon. You want to be up and ready when she arrives. Charlie too, it’s been so long since we’ve seen him. I wonder if he’ll be the next wedding we'll be planning.” If the rumours Draco had heard about Charlie Weasley were true, he doubted there’d ever be a wedding with him as the groom. “It’s so exciting. Just think: a wedding at the Burrow.” As she talked she moved from Ron’s bed, where she’d stopped to brush his hair back, mumbling about him needing a haircut before the wedding, her hand lingering over him. She set several house-keeping charms to work around the room. 

Draco watched her and the Weasel the entire time. She had looked directly at Draco several times, but made no sign of seeing him. 

Finished with whatever she’d set out to do, she stood at the door. “If I don’t hear you out of this bed, in the next five minutes, I’ll send Ginny in here. She’s been awake for over two hours now, helping me clean the guest bedrooms. She’s not in the best of moods.”

Weasley’s eyes flew open, the moment the door closed. He looked straight up, directly at Draco. Draco cowered. Weasley rubbed his eyes vigorously, closed them and then repeated the action. This time rubbing with even more vigor, before he rolled off the bed, grabbed his wand and pointed it at Draco. “What the bloody, buggering fuck are you doing here?” He hissed. 

Draco opened his mouth, to speak, but not sure if he could, or if Weasley could hear him. 

Weasley collapsed back on the bed. “Is he even really here? Am I hallucinating?” Ron whispered more to himself, than to Draco. “I must be. Mum looked straight at him. Didn’t say a word.” Weasley looked back up at him, his eyes large and incredibly blue. Draco had never noticed how like the morning sky, Weasley’s eyes were before. Unfortunately they were surrounded by freckles and all that ginger hair and lashes. 

“I must be cracking up. Worrying about what we’ve got to do and Bill’s wedding. The wedding that almost didn’t happen because of …” His eyes flicked upward, but still didn’t settle on Draco. “What Harry, and Hermione and I have to do, instead of returning to Hogwarts and if Harry knows…” he stopped talking. “I can’t say anything else, in case I’m not imagining this, not cracking up, and he really is here. But how is he here?” 

Before he could say anything else, and drive Draco batty with his mumbling, he had to be stopped.

“For the love of Methuselah, would you shut it?” He snapped. “I’m not a hallucination.”

“But, but, my mum--.”

“Yes, well. I’m not sure why she couldn’t see me. I’m sort of new at this. You’re my first visit, only why I came here, I can’t imagine. This--” he paused to look around the room, “--was not my intent.”

“Why are you on the ceiling? Are you a Patronus?” The Weasel was still obviously a bit confused, but then when wasn’t he? 

“Of course, I’m not a Patronus,” Draco huffed. “That’s a bit of a laugh. Can you imagine anyone conjuring me up to be their protector?” Weasley looked up at that, his face contorted, as if he was really thinking about what Draco had just said. It threw Draco off balance. “When have you ever had an actual conversation with a Patronus,” he was finally able to continue. 

Ron shrugged and then stood back up, his legs long and muscled, covered in ginger hair; scratched at his balls, as he stretched. He wore no pajama bottoms, just white cotton y-fronts, and a wife beater undershirt, his shoulders broader than Draco had realised they were. 

“Please, stop!” Draco screeched, sounding remarkably like the screeching woman, which was so many kinds of wrong, “I don’t want to see you scratching at your junk!” 

“Look, I’m pretty sure you’re some sort of mental vision. That you’re not really here, and I’m sure as hell, not talking to you, having a conversation with you. Like you and I have ever had a conversation? Why would we now? Obviously I’m cracking up. When the others realise I’m talking to myself, they’ll send for the Healers to come and take me away. I want to be dressed when that happens.”

“What does that have to do with you scratching your balls?” Draco snapped, as a half-naked Weasley was not nearly as horrible a sight as he’d always imagined it would be. And that disturbed him greatly. 

“They itch. They always itch in the morning, don’t yours? If I don’t start making noise, Ginny’s going to come barging in. I’m going to get dressed, if you don’t want to see. I suggest you turn your head.”

“Do you think she’ll be able to see me?” Draco questioned and then wondered at his own mental well-being. Here he was having a conversation, strange as it might be, with Ronald Weasley. Maybe they should reserve a room for him as well. Suddenly, he didn’t care. He was at least talking to another person. It made him inexplicably happy. The first human he’d talked to in weeks, even if it was the Weasel. 

Ron was pulling on a Cannon’s jersey, with cut sleeves. He turned his back to Draco and buttoned the jeans he’d pulled on as well. “So, if you’re not a hallucination, and I’m actually talking to you, and you’re not a Patronus, what are you?” 

“I’m a projection, an astral projection. My body is back at the cottage.”

“A projection? Cottage, what cottage? What are you talking about, and more importantly, what the fuck are you doing in my room? Why me?” He tugged on some trainers, ripped and torn, clearly having been through more than a year’s worth of wear, maybe even more than one owner. Either was possible based on what Draco knew of the finances of the Weasley family. 

Dressed, Weasley collapsed back on the edge of the bed. Before Draco could answer any of his questions, the door opened and the female Weasley walked in, or rather, stomped in. Merlin, they were a noisy bunch. If Draco stayed here much longer, he’d have a throbbing headache, and he’d finished off the last of the willow bark tea just yesterday. Bugger he’d have to make more.

“Who are you talking to? Have you finally gone around the bend? Have you heard any news about Harry? Do you know when they’re supposed to bring him? How are they going to get him past the Trace?” Clearly her mother’s daughter, able to talk and say nothing at the same time. Although, that bit about Potter was sort of interesting. Not that it did Draco any good, unless he found a way to get the information to someone else.

As she spoke, Ron’s eyes never left Draco who hovered along the right corner of the room, away from the door. Finally, realising her brother wasn’t answering any of her questions, Ginny Weasley stopped talking. She followed the direction of her brother’s gaze, looking straight at Draco and frowned.

Draco’s heart sped up and he looked back at her, waiting. Did she see him? Ron looked back and forth between the two of them. He too waited.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, and Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “Has the ghoul been making a disturbance? I told Mum, we should do something about it, before the guests start arriving.”

Ghoul! They have a ghoul. Draco was terrified of ghouls, more than just about anything else. Had been since he was a child and overheard stories of what they could and would do to small boys that didn’t mind their parents. It was time to leave. 

The cottage was just as he’d left it. Nothing was different, but somehow it felt completely different. He’d travelled away from the cottage, away from the area. But why the Weasley’s? That made no sense. And why was it that only Ron could see and hear him, no one else? Would Potter and Grainger be able to see him? Would he get a chance to find out? As he didn’t know how he’d got there in the first place, he had no answer. 

 

***

 

He knew the moment he opened his eyes, where he was. The questions about whether he could return to the Weasley’s or not were satisfied. Not only could he, but it was beginning to look, as if Ron Weasley’s bedroom, was the only place he could go. “Bloody fuck, this is not where I was supposed to come,” Draco sighed. “Why do I keep ending up here?” 

He’d done everything he could to focus all his attention, intent and memory on Pansy Parkinson’s bedroom. As children they had played at each other’s homes frequently. As they got older their parents allowed them to continue to allow them to spend their time alone in her room. Draco wasn’t sure what they hoped to accomplish, or prevent perhaps in his case by letting this continue, but it wasn’t going to work. Draco had no interest in Pansy, romantically speaking. 

His interest lay more along the lines of the person who lay snoring in the dark below him. Not Ron Weasley specifically, but--. Few people knew that about him, Pansy being one of them. 

There was a rustling in the other bed in the room, the one that had previously been empty. Draco looked closer at it. The person rolled over and the light from the moon shone on the lightning bolt shaped scar on the forehead. 

He should have known -- Potter. Weasley had mentioned Harry was going to be arriving soon. Draco hadn’t realised it was going to be quite that soon. Ron had also said, not to Draco directly, of course, that the three of them were not going to be returning to Hogwarts. They had other plans. From the looks of things, Draco would not be returning to Hogwarts either. At least they had a choice. He wondered what their plans were. 

There was now rustling coming from Weasley’s bed as well as some sort of moaning sounds. Disgusting yet arousing. Moans and groans and other noises Draco really didn’t want to hear. Yet he found himself listening closer. Maybe he’d learn something.

“Oh yeah, that’s it. Oh yeah, Oh baby,” Ron mumbled. Draco winced and then gagged, pretending to stick his finger down his throat. Please, he did not want to overhear Weasley’s sex dreams. Unless he was part of them, then he immediately wanted to bleach his brain for even thinking such a thing.

“Yeah, oh yeah, Fuck yeah,” Weasley continued; only there was now more rustling and it was more rhythmic. Ron rolled over on this his back and pushed his hand down under the covers. 

Speechless, his mouth opened wide, Draco watched Ron Weasley begin to jerk himself off. The Weasel was wanking, right in front of him. Had he no shame; had he no dignity? Good Lord, the distance from where Weasley started his pull to where it ended was, as best Draco could see, an extraordinarily long distance. Was that all Weasley? Draco certainly had no intention of stopping this. Sort of even hoped there might be some flinging of duvets and what not’s off hot bodies. Then Weasley had to go and break the spell. 

“Oh ‘Mione, Fuck, that’s so good.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Weasley, find some place private to do that. I don’t want to see you jerking off.” Draco snapped.

Weasley’s eyes flew open. Unfortunately for him and Draco-- only not as much as you’d think-- Ron’s body chose that moment to orgasm. Weasley lay panting quietly for a few seconds, his hand covered in his own spunk until Draco could stand it no longer, “Aren’t you going to go clean up, or at least cast a cleaning spell?”

Weasley grabbed his wand. A simple but effective cleaning spell followed. “What are you doing here, again?” he asked tiredly, as if he was becoming used to projections of Draco showing up in his bedroom, but not quite fully accepting the reality of it.

“Wha…? What, am I doing here? That’s what you want to talk about. I just saw you wank,” And over Granger he started to say, but thought better of that. After all Ron, Hermione and Potter had been attached at the hips since first year. Why shouldn’t they be fucking? Only somehow, Draco didn’t think they were. Weasley just wanted them to be. He said none of that out loud, instead only said, “Why would you do that?”

“Why would I do what? Wank? I’m a male, I wank. Don’t you? Or are you saving your precious pureblood seed for your lovely pureblooded bride?” His voice held a curl of derision. “Or that I wanked in front of you. Didn’t know you were going to be here, now did I? Not like you Floo’d, or even sent an owl to make an appointment or notify me of your imminent arrival. Did you? Again I ask. Why are you here? Is this some sort of dark wizard plan to drive me barmy by showing up in my bedroom two times in the past four days?”

He let out a huge yawn, his cavernous mouth opening even wider than Draco had ever seen in the past, giving him a perfect view of that little thing that hung down the back of a person’s throat. The thing that looked like something Muggle fighters used for practice, but Draco could never remember what it was called. What was that thing? He wondered if the cottage had a book on it. He didn’t recall seeing one, but books he’d never seen before kept showing up. 

He was so engrossed in thinking about this, that he about jumped out of his skin, his projected skin that is, when a voice from the other bed said, “I’m here, because you invited me. I’m always here at this time of the summer. Do you not want me here? If you remember I tried to leave last night after the Death Eater attack. After George.” 

“WHAT!” Draco shouted, not able to help himself. He slapped his hand over his mouth immediately, but knew it was too late. There was no way Potter would not have heard him. Potter gave no indication of anything being amiss. Though Ron swung his head around and glared up through the darkness at Draco.

Weasley then began to roll around on the bed and make shuffling, grunting and groaning noises before he suddenly shot up like a Bludger just released from its bonds. He swung his head around to look in Potter’s direction. “What’d you say, Fred? Percy, is that you, what are you doing here? Didn’t think you lived here anymore?” 

“Ron, wake up,” Potter shouted. “You’re having a nightmare or some sort of weird dream.” He then grinned across the darkness at Weasley, “and I thought the strange dreams were my thing.” He lay down again and rolled over, his back towards Ron. Soon he was making deep sleeping sounds, only not snoring. Potter, it seemed, didn’t snore.

Weasley and Draco said nothing until they were sure Potter was asleep. “Are you daft? Yelling like that. He could have heard you.” Weasley hissed in a loud whisper, after he’d cast a silencing spell. 

“There was a Death Eater attack? On who? When? Who was it? What happened? George, what happened to George? I don’t understand.” 

“You mean, you really don’t know?” Weasley asked; his tone dubious in the darkness. 

“No, I don’t know anything. Remember I told you I’m stuck at this cottage.” 

“You mentioned a cottage, but never said where it was or how often you were away from it.”

“I don’t know where it is, and I’m never away from it. Except for the two times I’ve managed to project myself to your room. I can’t leave it.” 

“You mean you’re a prisoner? But whose? Who put you there?” 

“I think it’s more for my protection, than a prison. I’m pretty sure it was Professor Snape that did it." Draco then told him the whole story of being on the run, Snape protecting him, the Portkey, and his life at the cottage. “Now, tell me. What happened to your brother?” 

“That really happened like that? You’re not making it up, are you?”

Draco shook his head, no. There must have been something in this that told Weasley he was telling the truth, that he could trust him. Over the next hour Ron told Draco everything that had happened since the last time he’d arrived in Ron Weasley’s bedroom. He also told Draco about Fenrir’s attack on his brother Bill. What he didn’t tell Draco was what he and the other two were planning on doing instead of returning to Hogwarts. 

When it had all been said, the sun was rising. “I should go,” Draco said.

“Yeah, I should try to get some sleep. There’s Bill’s wedding to finish getting ready for.” Ron had shuffled around in the bed ready to go back to sleep when he said, “Don’t know why I just told you all that. You’re the enemy.”

“I don’t know either, but I’m glad you did. You might be surprised to find out how much I’m really not your enemy. And Ron, I’m sorry about your brother Bill, I never meant for that to happen. I was just trying to save my family. And myself.” The last was said so softly, Draco doubted Ron could have heard it. He sort of hoped he hadn’t.

Silence answered him and then he heard the sounds he’d come to recognise as Weasley’s snoring. A fact that should have shocked him more than it did. He returned to his own body at the cottage and fell asleep with the memory of those snores lulling him to sleep. 

 

***

 

Much of what Weasley had told him left Draco unnerved. At least that was the reason he gave himself for wanting to talk with him some more. Weasley’s older brother’s wedding was scheduled for today, but Draco wasn’t sure when. He debated his departure time for the better part of the day, finally settling on just after sundown.

Something was clearly different. There was far too much noise and light and laughter to be Weasley’s bedroom. Music was playing and the space around him was cavernous.

Draco distinguished Ron’s voice over all the others. Immediately he felt more at ease, wondering why, the moment he thought it. Below him dozens, maybe even hundreds of guests were talking, laughing and dancing. Fleur was dancing with a tall and striking man with ginger hair. The scars that ran along the side of his face were all that marred his exceptional good looks. It could only be the brother Bill. 

He’d heard Ron’s voice, but Draco had yet to locate him. When he did he almost wished he hadn’t. Weasley and Granger were dancing together. Their faces shone with happiness and joy. Something twisted inside him, a feeling he couldn’t quite identify. The music was lighthearted and playful, the sort that would never have been allowed at the Manor. He couldn’t help himself; he quite enjoyed it, soon finding himself moving in time to the music. Potter remained unaccounted for. 

He brought himself to more of a sitting position. His legs crossed in front of him, like the Buddha, or someone practicing meditation. He felt extraordinarily happy with his small accomplishment. Once he’d adjusted to the new position, he realised it was easier to make out people in the crowd. He looked around, curious as to what other guests he might recognise. 

Krum was there. Fleur must have invited him. Madame Maxime, he saw, was off to the side talking with Hagrid – no surprise there. A female with long waving blonde hair was dancing with a wizard whose hair was much like hers. Both were dressed in bright yellow, the female wore a large sunflower in her hair. The others around them seemed to be avoiding them. Based on the dancing they were doing, Draco could understand why.

The female turned around and Draco recognised Looney Lovegood. He was surprised to see her there. Draco knew Loony was close to Potter, having seen them on several occasions. He’d even suspected them of being a couple. That was, until Potter and the female Weasley kept disappearing into darkened corners and cozy alcoves. Only to emerge sometime later, lips red and swollen and clothing somewhat mussed. Were the Lovegoods friends with the wedding couple?

The more he watched Lovegood dance the more Draco, though he would never admit to it, enjoyed her movements. They were so free and easy and unassuming. Soon he too was waving his hands around like little butterflies, or fire fairies. It was a ridiculous amount of fun, something he’d not had in such a long time. 

“You’re here?” Weasley’s voice reached out to him from below. Draco froze, and glanced down. He really hoped Weasley had not seen him dancing. Ron’s expression was one of affectionate confusion. 

Weasley cast a disillusionment charm over the two of them. Draco didn’t think one was needed for him, but it didn’t hurt anything. “What are you doing here?” Ron asked. “I thought you could only come to my bedroom. I can’t keep the charm up too long; the others will start to look for me, especially my mum and Hermione.” 

Draco understood. “I didn’t know I could come anyplace else either. I didn’t think the wedding would have started yet, and I wanted to talk with you some more about…” He wasn’t sure what else to say, so he just shrugged. “I took a chance you’d still be in your room, but I ended up here instead.” He looked down at all the smiling and laughing faces and said. “It’s been a long time, since I’ve been around this many people.”

Weasley stood staring at him for such a long time, Draco began to wonder if maybe he had some of his dinner still left in his teeth. Then Ron sort of grinned at him and said, “Yes, well, we are a large group. You’re welcome to stay. I’ve got to remove the charm and go mingle with the great aunts and uncles." 

The charm released, Draco once again heard the music and laughter. There was a flash of silver that ran across the night sky. It entered into the large tented structure; then coalesced into a silvery lynx. A deep and gravelly voice said, “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then chaos erupted. Many of the guests Disapparated on the spot. Others searched frantically for their loved ones, before those too disappeared with a +crack. Below him Weasley was panicked. Draco watched as Ron ran through the tent, forcing his way through the crowd that was milling here and there, all looking for someone. Hermione and another ginger, whose clothes didn’t quite fit, were clasping their hands together. Draco watched as Ron dived towards them. Once touching, they Disapparated. Not a second to spare either, as the Death Eaters were already arriving. 

He too chose then to return to his body and the cottage. Trepidation shook him as he sat before the roaring fire, a pot of Earl Grey tea resting under the tea cozy. Although, the middle of summer Draco was chilled to the bone.

The Ministry had fallen. Could it be true? Had the Dark Lord gained so much power in the short time Draco had been gone from it all? Those at the wedding, although scared, had not seemed to be all that shocked or even surprised at the news. The Death Eaters that he had seen arriving were clearly looking for someone. It had to be Potter. The Dark Lord must be anxious to have that final confrontation with Potter, ready to put an end to whatever saviour status Potter had. Ron and Hermione were in danger as well. Not that he cared all that much about Granger, but Ron… For not the first time Draco wished for a copy of the Prophet, or access to the Wizarding Wireless, or even, Merlin Forbid, the Quibbler. Anything that would tell him what was happening in the world outside the small cottage. 

 

***

 

He laid awake, most of the night, tossing and turning, the words of the Patronus playing over and over in his head. When dawn’s light shone through the cottage windows, he was already up and dressed. The cold water splash of the stream gave him the wake up he needed. The dregs of his morning tea growing cold and disgusting, along with the crumbs of his toast scattered across the table, were the only signs of his morning activities. He couldn’t wait any longer. 

He’d almost lost himself in the process of searching for Ron last night. Consistently he’d arrive to a location, only to find it strangely empty, yet Draco could still feel Ron’s presence. It lingered as if it was somehow waiting to see if Draco would come. Once Draco arrived, Ron’s presence grew weaker. The locations were surprising: a crowded street in Muggle London, then a café that was covered in bits of broken glass and china. Two males lay stunned on the floor, clearly Obliviated Death eaters, to anyone who bothered to look. 

Each time his return to his body grew more difficult. It had felt much like Splinching, only more so. Part of him, not his body, but himself, had felt missing until long after his final return. He expected it was due to the fear and anxiety in the pit of his stomach. Could they, Weasley and the other two, really expect to escape the clutches of the Dark Lord? Just because they’d got past those two idiots in the café, didn’t mean they could get past the rest. Had they already been caught? Had that been why Draco had been unable to find them?

The moment his projection finished forming, Draco knew he’d found him. Ron was here. 

Wherever here was. The place was dark, and dank, and grim, and the furnishings looked as if they’d belong in a house from many years ago. A feeling of having been here, a long time ago, nagged at him. It reminded him of being a small child, and of his mother. The when and the why gnawing at the back of his mind, he looked at the figures sleeping below him. 

Hermione lay with her arm hung off the side of the sofa she was sleeping on. On the floor next to her was Ron in a sleeping bag. His arm and hand outstretched, it lay less than an inch from hers. They had fallen asleep holding hands. Of that he had no doubt. 

All he felt, was red hot jealousy. And humiliation. He’d started to fall for, started to care for a Weasley. How could he have? It was obvious; the long term aloneness of the cottage and the loneliness it brought had caused him to lose sight of his pureblood values. Well no more. He’d not be back. Ever. Again. Every thought, every action would be him doing all he could to break the magic of the cottage and return home. He’d repaired the Vanishing Cabinet, he could do this. 

At that moment Ron woke. Rolling over he opened his eyes, the lashes still crusty from sleep, but the irises clear and bright. He looked up and saw Draco, a surprised smile spreading across his face. He started to speak. Unfortunately for Draco, the return to his body already started, he could not stop it. Where Ron’s eyes had just shown unexpected joy at seeing Draco, disappointment filled them as Draco’s etheric body faded and then left the space.

Draco spent the rest of the day curled up on the bed, doing nothing. The fire provided the only light. Repeatedly he told himself it was because he’d got such little sleep the previous night. He couldn’t bring himself to admit how much it had hurt to see those two hands, so close together. Thoughts of breaking the magic of the cottage and possibly returning home were overshadowed by the look of surprised happiness on Ron’s face when he’d seen Draco.

 

***

 

He recoiled; fear seizing him the moment he recognised where he was. The golden fountain that had for years brought light and beauty to the space was gone. In its place was a large statue of black stone, cold and dark. Still there was no doubt, he’d come to the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. He relaxed then, remembering that he was invisible to all but Weasley. 

But why here? He could only travel to where Ron was. Surely the rules of his traveling would not change so abruptly. There was no reason for Ron to be here voluntarily. People in hiding from Death Eaters didn’t come to the Ministry when it was now in the hands of those same Death Eaters. It made no sense.

Searching for Weasley, Draco watched the people below him, scuttling to and fro, like insects with a destination in mind, but each of them headed to a different terminus. 

He thought it possible he might see his father. Whether he wanted to or not, Draco was unsure. They would not be able to speak, so what good would it do, other than to verify his father was still alive. Any questions about his mother’s well-being would remain unanswered. Draco returned his concentration to Ron. 

What was he doing with Runcorn? Weasley was in front of the horrid black statue, with Runcorn, an avid supporter of Pureblood beliefs and no friend of Muggles. There was with them a Ministry witch Draco did not recognise. Had Runcorn somehow caught Ron? Where were the other two? 

Another man, large with a brutish face, was approaching Weasley and the others. Draco would recognise him anywhere. His fear returned triple-fold. There would be no escaping Yaxley. Ron would be tortured, beaten and cursed, until he told all. 

“Cattermole, it’s still raining in my office,” Yaxley said to Ron. 

Draco blinked. Had he just heard that right? Why was Yaxley calling Ron Cattermole? Who was Cattermole? 

Ron looked terrified. Even laughed his little laugh he always used when frightened or nervous. Draco was sort of, but not really, surprised that he knew that about Ron.

Yaxley spoke briefly with Weasley, but persisted in calling him Cattermole. More surprisingly, no one around them questioned it, including Ron. The more Yaxley talked, the more frightened Weasley became. The conversation was not a pleasant one, then again Yaxley was not very gregarious. 

Yaxley then threatened Weasley’s wife his wife? with concerns about her blood status, if his office wasn’t dry in one hour. Ron nodded, but said nothing more.

Ron, Runcorn and the unknown witch entered into one of the elevators. To Draco’s utter frustration, he found he could not follow them. He was stuck in the Atrium.

It seemed hours, although it probably wasn’t, before Ron and the other two reappeared. This time Ron had a sobbing, weeping, and unknown woman attached to him. In addition, he was completely soaking wet, like he’d showered fully dressed and had decided to come to the Ministry without contemplating the use of a drying spell, or even a towel.

A large group of noticeably nervous witches and wizards followed behind them. Runcorn, now acting with his usual aggressiveness was talking of taking them to a safe place. Those in the Atrium seemed very bewildered by this announcement. 

A voice shouted out above all the noise and confusion. A small ferrety looking man came running out of the lift. The woman draped around Ron turned to look at the sound of the voice. She then spun around to look back at Ron. Flummoxed, she stared back and forth between the two. Others around them also stared and pointed as well, Yaxley among them. 

Ron swore loudly, grabbed the woman and disappeared into an open fireplace. Runcorn and the unknown witch jumped into another open fireplace and vanished as well. Draco still could not follow them. 

The place erupted into chaos, shouting and running around with accusations being thrown every which way. It seemed that had been Harry Potter and the other two Polyjuiced to gain access to the Ministry, for some unknown reason. 

At least it explained Runcorn’s sudden concern for a safe place for Muggle-borns. 

It was only later when he was again at the cottage that he thought to question why he’d recognised Ron through the Polyjuice and not the others. 

 

***

 

Many weeks passed before Draco attempted another astral journey. He was not sure why he waited so long. Wasn’t sure what he was afraid he might find. Plus he feared the process.

Each time his astral body would begin to feel it was coming together, there would be a pull and it would again dissipate. Leaving him feeling scattered.

When he finally did find him, Draco was exhausted. If it had not taken so long, and had not been so difficult, he probably would have left and come back the next day. The fear that they might leave, and he’d have to go through it all again, kept him from it.

Granger was outside wrapped in a thick jumper. The evenings were getting cooler. Her back was against a large tree, a beam of light shone from the tip of her wand. She was reading from a small book. Potter was sleeping on a cot at the front of the tent. The tent was magically enlarged, but the furnishings remained rustic, at best. Still, it was better than what the cottage provided him. 

Potter flailed on the bed, his skin shone with sweat, and his hand kept going to his scar. Contortions, of what could only be extreme pain crossed his face. Yet he didn’t wake, nor make a sound. Granger turned to look in Potter’s direction a few times, but never got up. This must be a regular occurrence if she didn’t feel it important to check on him.

Ron paid it no attention either. Matter of fact, Ron did not seem to be paying much attention to anything except a battered old Wizarding Wireless that was on the floor next to his cot. His expression was pure anger and, and, and what? Ron had never looked even at him with that much emotion. Fear, rage, despair, anger, jealousy, Draco was sure he saw it all, and some he couldn’t identify. He looked horrid. Worse than Draco had ever seen him, not even during the slug vomiting of their second year, had he looked this bad. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, his skin was pale and pasty looking, but the fury that rolled off him, was what truly made Draco falter. 

Noise was coming from the radio, but it wasn’t music. Instead it was a voice. Someone was talking. Draco listened carefully, trying to determine what it was that was causing Ron such distress.

Ron still hadn’t seen him, or if he had, he hadn’t acknowledged him. Draco knew when it was best to hold back, recognizing the signs he’d experienced from his own childhood. 

He began to hear what the voice was saying. Immediately wishing he hadn’t. It was reading off a list of names, of families, of individual and of whole groups. The voice spoke so solemnly, it could only be one thing. The list of those, that were dead, or missing or arrested. What he didn’t know was if those names being read were on Potter’s side or the Dark lord’s. The voice was scratchy and the reception very poor, making it impossible to make out all the words.

On the other side of the small cot Ron was on, was a newspaper. The figures moved and waved and spoke. It was the Prophet. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d seen a copy of the wizarding world’s newspaper. He leaned down to look closer. 

He gasped. Snape was now Head Master of Hogwarts. Glad as he was for his former Head of House, Draco was sure this not a good thing. At the end of last year, before Bellatrix and the others had arrived at the Castle, he would have thought it a very good thing. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Anyone with half a brain would have gambled their Gringott’s vault that McGonagall would have been Dumbledore’s replacement, Flitwick even. They’d both been professors longer than Snape.

A shadow across the page caused him to look to the side. Draco swallowed hard. Ron held his wand in his hand, his face gnarled with that same myriad of emotions Draco had seen earlier. The wand was pointing straight at Draco’s chest, his hand shaking. 

“Expeliarmus,” Ron hissed.

Nothing happened, of course.

“Stupefy!” The wand slashed through the air.

Draco could only stare in horror at him. 

“Petrificus Totalus,” Ron’s face was so red, it was purple.

Draco raised his hand, wanting to draw his attention, wanting him to stop. “You idiot!” he hissed. “You can’t curse me. I’m not here!” 

“Ron? Are you okay?" Hermione yelled into the tent. 

“Just get him the fuck out of here," Ron snarled.

“Oh fuck, now you’ve gone and done it, Weasley,” Draco muttered.

Before the words were out of his mouth, Granger and Potter – he must have woken from the noise –had rushed into the space, wands flourished and terror and confusion on their faces. 

They stopped and looked around, their looks of confusion grew, then pity. Their pity was so strong it had an almost physical presence. They both looked at Ron; saw the direction of his focus. Each of them looked hard in Draco’s direction. He waved at them both, blew a kiss in Hermione’s direction and a raspberry at Potter; then he wished he’d done the opposite. There was no reaction from either of them.

“Weasley, they can’t see me. Only you can. Now, even your mates are going to think you’ve gone barmy,” Draco began then stopped as Ron ran towards him, screaming. Potter grabbed him around the middle and pulled him to a stop, or tried to. Ron was a lot bigger, a lot stronger and a lot angrier than Potter. He barreled through Potter’s hold. Granger’s spell had more of an effect. Ron crumpled to the ground, stunned but basically unharmed. They left him as he was for a while.

“The locket’s clearly affecting him more than either of us," Hermione said.

Locket? What locket?

“We’re going to have to restrict his wearing of it, even more than we already have.”

Draco saw no locket, but there was a chain around Weasley’s neck. Ron was beginning to come around. That must have been some stunner Granger had cast. 

“It’s never affected either of us mentally. It only ever made us feel anger and despair. Why is it affecting him like that?” Potter questioned. Wide awake now, Potter still appeared baffled by what had just happened. 

Ron’s eyes were wide open now, and they were starting up at Draco. Draco wanted to leave, wanted to go away and never come back. There was none of the confused warmth he’d grown to expect in Ron’s eyes, only coldness.

But that would be the coward’s way out. Draco had had enough of being a coward, of running away. He had to stay. He had to stay and convince Ron to take that locket, the one he still couldn’t see, from around his neck.

“Take it off,” he said. Ron blinked at him. “The locket they’re talking about. Take it off. I don’t know what it is, but it’s doing you no good.”

The others had the same idea. Each said basically the same thing, Potter going so far as to bend down to where Ron lay on the floor. Even Draco recoiled from the look of hatred Weasley gave his best mate. 

Harry stood and spread out his arms in a shrug. “Ron, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do. I know how you feel, what you’re thinking. You knew what you were getting into. At least you should have.” He stopped talking when Ron turned his head away from him, the stunner losing even more of its power.

Potter walked into the other section of the tent. Hermione reached down and giving Ron a glare she reached under his shirt and pulled out a greenish coloured locket. She pulled it over his head.

The moment it was no longer on Ron’s neck, Draco could feel the dark magic coming off it in waves. He stumbled back. What was that? Whatever it was, it was pure evil. Nothing he’d ever come across, at the manor, at Bellatrix’s or at Burgin and Burkes had this much evil. And Ron had been wearing it next to his skin. Draco shuddered at the thought.

Ron’s face began to soften. His eyes cleared and he spoke in a low whisper. "I’m okay now Hermione. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?" She lowered herself next to him and rubbed his shoulders. Tears welled in her eyes.

He nodded, “Yeah, not sure why I lost it there. Thought I saw something, or someone. Must have been that thing giving me one of those waking nightmares you sometimes hear about.” As he spoke his gaze lingered on Hermione only to flicker to Draco every so often.

She nodded at him, as she put the locket around her own neck. The change was instant. No longer was the confident, self-assured Granger before him. This Granger carried an aura of defeat; something Draco had never seen her have. 

“I’ll be fine, ‘Mione. Watch out for that thing” Ron stood and walked over to the cot where he lay down. The Wireless was still calling out names low and staticky. Draco had forgotten all about it. As Granger left the small space she flicked her wand at it. “No more of that for tonight either.”

The moment she was out of sight, Ron grabbed his wand. Only instead of turning the Wireless back on, as Draco had feared, Ron cast a silencing charm.

They stared at each other in the shadowed gloom. Granger had dampened the light as well; the night was dark around them. Neither of them said a word for the longest of time. Draco was the first to speak. “What was that? It’s pure evil, you know. It should be destroyed.” 

Weasley just stared at him, and then, to Draco’s horror, he started laughing. He laughed, and he laughed, and he kept laughing until tears poured down his cheeks until his laughter turned to tears, and he began sobbing. 

Totally unnerved, Draco left. 

 

***

 

The calendar on the wall of the cottage said 24th December, Christmas Eve. All the loneliness of the past six months descended on him. The walls began to close in around him, as if the cottage itself was shrinking. The need to be with another, to laugh with, to discuss things with, and especially to touch grew stronger as the day progressed. The snow that lay heavy in the yard outside the cottage, the scents of fir and balsam that drifted in from the forest, and the bright red of the holly berries he could see from the doorway, all added to his nostalgic memories of Christmases past at the Manor.

He spent the morning and early afternoon doing whatever he could to make it feel more like Christmas. Just because he was trapped in this blasted cottage was no reason not to at least try. Plus it helped the time to pass.

As he decorated and cleaned and wrapped pretend gifts to himself, he sang some of the more traditional Wizarding Christmas carols and thought of Ron. He wondered where they were, what they were doing, was their quest, whatever it was, any further along. Most of all he wondered if they had destroyed the locket or not. 

The sun was just beginning to set when Draco settled into his chair and prepared to travel.

Ron lay on a single bed. The room was small and sparsely furnished. It was a room and not a tent; Draco thought that an improvement. Ron was alone. Gone was the look of rage and hate that he’d carried previously. Now he just looked sad and alone and defeated. 

He held in his hand a small silver object. He kept twirling it around in his hands and from time to time he’d flick it open. All the lights in the room would disappear into it, and he’d click it closed. Click it open again and the lights flew back to where they belonged. Draco had never seen anything like it.

“What is that thing?” he finally asked.

Ron had shown no indication he was aware of Draco’s arrival, but he didn’t bat an eyelash at his inquiry, so maybe he had known.

“It’s a Deluminator,” He answered as he continued flicking it open and closed, open and closed. Lights on, lights off; lights off, lights on. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?” Draco asked. It was a fascinating gadget; he wasn’t sure of its usefulness, but it was intriguing.

“Dumbledore left it to me in his will.”

“Dumbledore left you something?” Draco’s surprise was evident. “I mean, I didn’t know you were that close.” He quickly tried to cover up how he must have sounded.

Ron chuckled a bit, “Surprised me too. He left something for all of us. He left Harry the first Snitch he ever caught. Hermione, he left a copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard. You know, neither she nor Harry have ever read it, never even heard of it. Can you imagine, growing up without “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot”, or “Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump”?” 

He looked up at Draco who shook his head. No, he couldn’t image it. Those tales had been such a part of his childhood, of everyone’s childhoods. There were slight variations in the small details, but not in what really mattered in the stories.

“Dumbledore also left Harry the Sword of Gryffindor, but that seems to be missing. We think Dumbledore hid it, but we don’t know where.” 

“Why did he leave you these things?”

Ron shrugged. “We don’t know, or at least we didn’t. They may have figured out some of it. Brilliant at figuring stuff out, those two.”

“And if they have, they’ll share it with you. Where are they anyway? I’m not used to having this much time alone with you.”

“Don’t know. I’ve left them.”

“Left them? What do you mean?”

Ron shrugged. “Abandoned them, deserted them, whatever you want to call it. I got frustrated and left.” 

The defeat in Ron’s eyes was more understandable now. 

“It’ll be okay Ron.”

Ron looked up quickly at the use of his name. Draco realised at that moment, he’d never called him Ron to his face, always Weasley. He’d been calling him Ron in his mind for some time now. Draco felt the heat of his blush pink his cheeks and Ron’s’ turned absolutely crimson. 

“You’ll find your way back to them. I know. You have to. They can’t do whatever it is that needs doing without you.”

“You don’t know that.” 

Draco was quiet for a long time. He had to think how to say this; had to make sure that Ron understood what he was saying. Ron waited patiently. He seemed to know Draco had something important to say.

“I know you. You’re me, only better. We’re more alike than we are different. We’re pure-bloods, we grew up with magic. We know what it can do; we’ve known the wonder and beauty of it since we were born. Few others have known that.” He paused for a breath and then continued. “Like me you want to run from those things that frighten you, because you know how truly dangerous they can be. You get angry when things you don’t understand happen, and when you can’t stop them. You’ve a dreadful sense of pride, but your feelings are hurt really easily.” He stopped to smirk a bit. “I know, I’ve taken advantage of it. You lose your temper easily and you want to hurt those that hurt you or your friends. And when it all gets too much, you’ve a tendency to blame others and quit.”

Ron’s face was darkening with humiliation. “If this is supposed to be making me feel better, it’s not working.”

“Let me finish. I’ve had a lot of time to think about these sorts of things. Being stuck in a cottage, with only yourself for conversation, will do that to you. Unlike me, you’re not afraid to admit when you’ve been wrong. You don’t stay mad, and you don’t destroy the relationships that you’ve built. You always find your way back to those that love you, and you will this time.” 

Silence filled the small room, until Draco said brightly, “So any plans for the holidays? Family coming for Boxing Day dinner perhaps? Although, where you’d put the Weasley horde in this space, I don’t know.”

Ron snickered, “Oh yeah, big doings. How about yourself? Mother and Father and crazy Aunt, going to be sharing Christmas morning at the cottage? Speaking of, are you still trapped there? ”

Draco nodded.

“Wow. I wonder if you’re going to be stuck there forever. I mean what if you never get out?”

“Then maybe you should give me my Christmas present now.” He tried to look coy, but was sure he just looked embarrassed.

“I didn’t get you a present. Besides how could you carry it? You’re not flesh.”

“It’s not something to carry. It’s something you already have, so you don’t have to get it.” 

Ron looked confused.

“I want to see it.”

Ron looked really confused now.

“I’ve wanted to see it since that night in your room. The night Potter was there.”

Ron scowled. “See what?”

Draco raised his eyebrows at him and the stared pointedly at Ron’s crotch.

“Wha, Ohh,” If Ron’s face had been red before, this was bloody scarlet. “You mean?”

Draco nodded.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? You can’t unzip your jeans, pull it out and let me see? I won’t touch it, I promise. See, hands off.” He held the projected image of his hands together and folded them into his lap. “I just want to see. Do you know what it’s liked to go for six months without seeing another cock, but your own?”

Ron turned and looked at him, with a perplexed expression. “Umm, yeah, I do. I’ve gone pretty much all my life without it, except for showers and Quidditch, and the twins. But I wasn’t looking at them. They were just there.”

“That’s right. I had tried to forget you weren’t bent.” 

Ron snorted, “Maybe, more bent than I thought I was.” He lowered his hand to his zip, and then stopped. “I don’t think I can do this. Not, like this.”

Draco looked at him beseechingly. His lost puppy dog face had always worked with Theodore; maybe it would work with Ron. 

“At the very least, I have to have the lights off,” Ron said. 

“And spoil all my fun. What’s the point, if I can’t see it?”

“I thought you told me that your night vision was really good in that form.” Ron waved his hand at Draco’s projection.

“Oh yeah, but it still seems unfair.” 

“Shouldn’t we kiss or something? This feels weird, like I’m being violated or some such,” Ron said.

Draco rolled his eyes, or tried to. “We can try.” Ron stood and Draco manouvered his body down. They touched lips; or rather what would have been lips, if Draco had been solid mass. He felt nothing. “Well, anything?”

“No, it’s nothing. Not even liked ghosts, at least with them, there’s the sort of iciness that goes through you.” 

Draco hovered and Ron clicked the Deluminator. A voice came through it, the voice was Hermione’s and it said just one word: “Ron.” They both started. 

“I thought you said she wasn’t here.” Draco said.

“You heard that?”

“Of course, didn’t you?”

“I heard it here.” Ron put his hand on his heart. “I didn’t hear it with my ears.”

Then there it was again, “Ron”, spoken so softly.

Draco sighed and said, “Go. Go find them. They need you. I think we know now why Professor Dumbledore left you that. He wanted you to always be able to find your way back to them. He knew they were going to need you.”

Ron quickly redressed and gathered up his stuff. “I think this will lead me to them, don’t you?”

“I’m sure of it. Just follow where it leads you.”

“Are you going to try and find me tomorrow? It’ll be Christmas.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah, I think I do. I’m not sure how my showing up is going to go over. I could use a friend.”

“Then I’ll do my best.”

 

***

 

It took him longer to locate Ron the next evening than he’d expected. Once he had, he was shocked by what he saw. 

Ron and Harry stood facing each other. Both sopping wet, Ron dressed, but Harry was dressed in only his pants, hurriedly dressing. Draco could only assume from what he saw that somehow Ron had just saved Saviour Boy from drowning. Why Potter had decided to take a dip in a frozen pond, on Christmas night remained an unknown. Ron was holding the Sword of Gryffindor in his hand, and the locket. Where, when and how they had come into his possession, Draco didn’t know. 

Some stilted conversation between the two followed. Draco tried his best not to listen; this was between Ron and Harry. What he did overhear, he didn’t understand. There was something about a doe Patronus. The only person Draco knew with a doe Patronus was Snape. Draco knew Snape was not a true Death Eater, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been forced to bring the others here. Draco would need to warn Ron. 

Instead he said nothing as Harry and Ron were having a disagreement about who should do something with the Sword. Draco felt a sense of foreboding, something evil was about to be released. Ron handed the locket to Potter, who held it tightly by its chain. The Dark Magic was pulsing inside it, growing stronger, waiting to be released. All three of them stared at it. Harry handed the Sword back to Ron. 

Potter placed the locket on a piece of flat rock and spoke in hissing sibilant sounds to the locket. 

“Ron, be careful.” Draco shouted as Potter uttered the last sounds. 

Ron raised the sword over his head, but he hesitated. Just long enough for the evil in the locket to escape. 

A voice, the voice of the Dark Lord, started speaking, saying things that should never be said except in moments of extreme faith and trust and intimacy. It accused Ron of feeling things, which maybe he did, but this was not the way. Ron stumbled back, his face contorted through the emotions that he was experiencing.

Potter was hollering at Ron, “Ron. Stab it. Don’t listen to it. Ron, destroy it.!”

Draco begun to add his voice to Potter’s encouragement, demanding Ron to bring down the Sword. Images began to form in the air around them. Images of Harry and Hermione locked in a naked embrace. The images saying things that no one should ever have to hear, lies and distortions. Potter denied everything, Ron looking as if he wanted to cry.

The image changed. Hermione and Harry faded away. In its place were now two others, a slender blond male and a broad shouldered ginger male. They too were naked and wrapped in the other’s arms. They were sweating and writhing, and it was clearly obvious. They were way beyond kissing.

Screaming in anger, his fury propelling him, Ron lifted the Sword and brought it crashing down onto the locket. It exploded into thousands of shattered pieces.

What happened after that was a blur of confusion to Draco. Especially the look of relief that covered Ron’s face when they realised Harry had not seen the last image. 

Draco left. He felt crushed. 

 

***

 

The Front gates had just announced Greyback and his captives. “Harry Potter,” he had said. Lucius allowed the gates to open. Draco stood by the fire, still as a statue. Since his return to the manor, he was paralyzed with fear non-stop. 

The punishment he’d received from the Death eaters when he’d been found at the cottage and returned to the Manor, had been beyond his greatest fear. His aunt Bellatrix the worst of the lot, she took it as a personal betrayal. His insistence that he was imprisoned and could not leave had been met with disbelief, and snorts of derision. 

He couldn’t blame Snape. Really he couldn’t, not after the torture he himself had suffered once found. Snape, he knew, had withheld the information as long as he could. It was only by Yaxley’s nosing into Snape’s personal belongings that a second Portkey, an inactivated one, was found. Yaxley had been suspicious from the start of what Snape was doing with a Potter stinks badge. The others, as well, thought it worth a second look. Not even the superb Occlumency skills Snape possessed could withstand the repeated Cruciatus curses they’d used on him.

Draco was now, once again, at the Manor, barely able to walk without torturous pain to his extremities from the many curses he had received. Snape was slowly returning to acceptance in the eyes of the Dark Lord. What he’d told the Dark Lord, the excuses he’d given, Draco did not know. Whatever it was, the Dark Lord chose to believe and forgive Severus. Things were not so good with Lucius, his father. Lucius had fallen out of favour with the Dark Lord, during the time Draco was missing. Even so far, that the Dark Lord had taken possession of his father’s wand. Draco wanted to weep at what his once proud and arrogant father had become. 

Several weeks had passed after Ron had destroyed the locket before Draco had been ready to visit him again. 

What they, he and Ron, had seen had kept repeating itself over and over in his memory. There was no question Ron had seen it too. When the image of the two of them, Ron and Draco, wrapped in each other’s arms, naked, sweating and writhing, had appeared, Ron’s face had shown shock, then embarrassment and then extreme anger. That image had been the impetus Ron had needed to bring the Sword crashing down onto the locket. Ron’s fury had been absolute. 

Draco was sure Potter had not seen that last image. He’d still been insisting to Ron that the image of him and Granger was untrue, that it was a lie. Strangely enough, Draco had believed him. Potter was many things, a liar he wasn’t. 

What they’d seen, Draco did not understand. Neither had he understand the look Ron had given him when the locket laid shattered and scattered in the grass. 

He’d left.

Draco had spent the time since wondering if the vision the locket had shown was Ron’s greatest fear or his greatest desire. He was afraid it was Ron’s greatest fear. As for Draco, it was his greatest wish. Nightly he dreamed of Ron’s arms wrapped around him. Ron’s lips kissing him, and Ron’s hands roaming over him, mapping out the contours and planes of Draco’s body. When and how it had happened he didn’t know, but Draco was pretty sure, he had fallen for Ron Weasley.

Since that didn’t bear thinking about, he’d stayed away as long as he could. But each day he wondered and worried. The situation had finally reached critical mass. Draco was sick with not knowing. 

Settled into his chair, the chair pulled up close enough to the fire for comfort but not too close. The process began, his cells beginning to separate; his physical body spelled to stay behind, his etheric body had just begun the journey.

There had been a loud crash outside the cottage. Half a dozen Death Eaters stormed through the cottage door. He saw them, and they saw him. But he’d already started the journey and could not stop it. He could only wait until he formed on the other side, and then return, repeating the process. To interrupt it was dangerous. 

Draco left and his body remained. But this time, only part of him came on the journey, and only part of him returned. He was, as he’d always feared, split. Merlin above knew if he’d ever be able to be whole again. 

It had been unbearable; it was worse than Splinching, worse than being under the Imperius Curse. He hadn’t known that then, only since his capture and forced return home, had he learned how truly unsettling those were. This had still been worse, different, there was no pain, or very little. But the mental, emotional and magical break down, he never wanted to experience again. 

It had taken days, full twenty-four hour days, before Draco had become whole again. Everything had been topsy-turvy. He’d adored his father, but feared his mother. He’d tried to convince one of the peacocks to make him breakfast, and as for the House elf Tibby, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to speak to her, without her squeaking and Disapparating away. Worse than all that, he’d laughed, with genuine laughter, at the sick, and truly bad, humour of the Dark Lord. 

Eventually he’d recovered, and the torture had begun. The Dark Lord had been insistent that Draco be fully aware. Draco was to tell them, where he’d been going when they caught him traveling. Each time he’d refused, the pain inflicted had grown worse. His resistance was too low, the torture too much. The truth had come out. 

Only the good it had done the Dark Lord was useless. Draco could not tell him where Potter and the rest of the trio had been on his last visit. He didn’t know, and doubted much they’d still be there. The Dark Lord and his minions, Aunt Bellatrix especially, had taken exception to Draco not having forced the information out of them. His, admittedly snide, explanation that he couldn’t very well, force anyone to do anything, as he was simply a projection with no mass, was met with ill humour. That was the day he’d learned the full force of his Uncle Rabastan’s cruelty. 

He stopped his traveling at that time. Not willing to take a chance that somehow, someway they’d find a way to follow him. He refused their demand. He’d suffered for it since. 

Greyback had said they had Harry Potter. Just Potter, or were Granger and Ron with him? Draco knew from all his times visiting Ron, Potter was seldom left alone. One of them was always with him. After the locket’s disastrous effects, Draco knew beyond any doubt Ron would never willingly leave Potter’s side again.

He began to tremble, shaking with emotions he’d not realised he had. What would he do if they brought Ron through that door? How could he protect the man who now meant so much to him? Without endangering himself, which would bring even more pain to Ron? Draco didn’t know for sure. But he knew that Ron felt the same about him. The words had never been spoken, which was why this might just destroy them both. The look in Ron’s eyes whenever Draco had appeared had said it all. 

Draco’s breathing grew shallow and rapid. He was going to hyperventilate. He had to get out of there.

“What is wrong with you, Draco?” his father asked his tone sharp with nerves.

“Draco, are you in need of a healer?” His mother’s voice held more concern for him, but fear was also evident. He shook his head and moved away from the fireplace. Standing still and silent, he calmed himself. 

The door opened and Greyback, along with other Snatchers, walked in. Greyback held trapped in his arms a male with a swollen and terrible puffed face. The man was wearing jeans and trainers, and a jumper Draco recognised from the night Ron had destroyed the locket. It was the one Potter had thrown on after Ron had rescued him from almost drowning. The last time Draco had seen Ron. 

Draco saw this, but it did not register with him. Behind Greyback were the others. Granger and a tall and thin, dark skinned boy Draco recognised as a Gryffindor, but couldn’t recall his name, and Ron. Ron’s face was tight with fear and fury, mostly fury. Draco watched as Ron wriggled and squirmed, struggling to get away. Ron’s gaze landed on Draco’s and he blanched even paler. No other sign of recognition or connection was made. 

Of course it was Potter, who else could it be with the scar, Potter’s clothes, Granger and Ron. Draco knew he had to find a way to protect Ron. Not only that, but even Draco had come to realise in the past days and weeks, that Potter had to be saved as well. Without Potter, this nightmare that was now Draco’s life would become endless. 

He silently begged Ron for his forgiveness when Bellatrix forced them all to be imprisoned in the dungeon while she tortured Granger. He hoped and prayed that somehow Ron would understand. Wanted to catch his eyes, to somehow relay the message, but it was too great a risk.

While his emotions were being ripped apart, Draco remained impassive, bland even on the outside. Granger’s screams of agony as Bellatrix branded her, and Ron’s yells of fury almost more than he could bear. There was a moment of jealousy when he heard Ron’s cries of anguish over Granger’s torture. Then he realized that, like Draco and Pansy, Ron and Hermione were friends. Draco would have been outraged over any pain she might suffer, but that didn’t mean he was in love with her.

Draco was just as surprised as anyone when Ron and Harry had suddenly appeared at the top of the staircase. Though why he should be, he didn’t know. Potter always managed to find a way. Luckily for Draco, that usually included saving Ron as well.

It is possible Draco could have fought harder against them, could have tried harder to keep his wand safe from Potter. He could have, but he didn’t. Something he only regretted in the last seconds as the knife from his aunt flew through the air and disappeared with a crack.***

Draco turned and walked away, paying no attention to the voices that called for him to return. What did it matter? He’d seen Ron’s face. He was sure Ron thought he was part of torturing Hermione. 

Ron’s face as he wrapped his arms around Hermione, was loving, caring, comforting. Draco hoped he never saw that again. Unless it was meant for him.

And it never would be unless he did something about this. He closed and locked the door to his room, using both locks and protective spells. Some he’d learned from observing Potter and Granger, some he’d learned from his Slytherin classmates. Would it keep them, his family, the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord out forever? No, but it should keep them out long enough for him to find Ron. And let him know. Everything. Draco was not going to hide his feeling any longer. What happened from there, only time would tell.

He sat in his chair; this one was much softer than the one at the cottage. Closed his eyes, relaxed his body, let his mind go blank. Less than ten minutes later he was gone. He was not returning until he’d found Ron and told him all. 

He found him walking along a shoreline. A cottage sat among the grassy dunes. Granger was talking with Lovegood. Oh, they must have somehow managed to bring the others as well. Potter was digging, a very large hole, further up the beach. 

“It’s for Dobby. Bellatrix’s knife caught him. He’s dead.” Ron said before Draco had asked.

Dobby? Dead? Draco felt a sudden wash of sadness. Dobby had been the one that took care of him, when his parents could not, or simply, had not. 

“Ron, I’m so sorry. I…I… I don’t know what to say. It’s all so fucked up.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure. It’s all completely fucked.”

“Ron, I want you to know. Hermione, I never…have. I meant, I wouldn’t …” Draco was incapable of finishing a sentence. How could he get Ron to understand, if he couldn’t tell him? 

Ron put his hand up and out. Close enough that if Draco had been flesh and bone, they would have touched. “I know. You don’t have to say anymore.” 

Draco wanted to ask how; or maybe why, but he wasn’t going to take the chance.

“You know,” Ron continued, “I for one am looking forward to the day when we can actually touch. I just hope I’m still alive to enjoy it.” He looked suddenly stricken. “Then again, once Harry and Hermione find out about us they’re going to kill me.”

Overjoyed with Ron’s use of the word us Draco just smiled at him, and said, “Yeah, they are.” 

 

The End


End file.
